“Get there early, before the fourth or fifth round of Cobras,” Bowering added.
“Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t be a smart-arse. This guy’s not messing around. He won’t be as impressed with your business card or dry wit.”
“You were impressed?”
“I was patient, Grayle,” Bowering said. “Very patient. Plus, you gave me money. That smooths over a lot of cracks.”
“That I did. Speaking of…?” I mimed reaching for my back pocket.
Bowering shook his head.
“No, no money.”
“Well, that’s refreshing. I’m pleased with your sense of community service.”
Bowering shrugged. “What can I say? You gotta give back. Plus, if I’m being honest, I need a favour, too.”
“Oh yeah? What’s on your mind?”
Bowering curled one hand’s thick fingers around the back of his neck and began kneading.
“I need you to run a check on someone in my employ,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “How deep you looking for? Basics, like credit rating and last couple of jobs, or we talking the all-out, unabridged Russian novel?”
“How long for the full War and Peace?”
“Could be weeks. But months, more likely.”
“What can you get in a week?”
“Well, I’m going to have to farm it out. I’m up to my hips in this and another case. But I know someone. She’s new, but good. She can find out a lot, but I can’t guarantee you the results on a strict timeline. Some people are open books, ’cause they don’t really have anything to find. Others are good at picking up all the breadcrumbs.”
“You trust this person?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Absolutely.”
Bowering considered this. What he was really wondering was if he could trust me.
“OK,” he said. “One week, and we’re square.”
We shook again.
“Who’s your area of concern?” I asked.
He flicked his head towards the entrance, where his colleague had left after being dismissed.
“That guy,” he said. “Name’s Tom Raynott. He came on a few weeks back.”
“What, that kid? What’s the problem?”
“Nothing. He seems OK. Good bartender. But I need to pick up a few guys for some other stuff and I don’t know enough about him to, you know, bring him in.”
He pulled an accordion box from under the bar, rifled through it, and handed me Raynott’s resume, plus a paystub with his national insurance number. I gave it all a quick once-over.
“You should pay people more,” I said.
“He does great with tips. Look, can you help or not?”
I laughed. “Relax, man. I’m messing with ya. Yes, I said can help.”
Bowering worked his neck a bit more. He obviously wasn’t used to dealing with outside contractors. Or asking anyone for help at all, I would imagine.
“I can get you something,” I said, attempting to appease. “But this stuff you’re asking for help with—if the kid is clean, is this going to get him in trouble?”
Bowering considered his response for a moment before giving it.
“He can always say no.”
“Fair enough,” I said, stuffing the papers into my jacket. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling back from the bar and assuming his full height. And width. “Mine is a trust-based enterprise. That’s why I need to know the kid’s all right. It’s also why I don’t feel great letting you poke around in my business.”
“It’s in my interest to do this and do it well,” I said. “You’re a good source to have.”
“Let’s keep it that way. Like I said, I know Alphonse. And I know the guys he uses to express his…disappointment. I know they’re always looking for extra work.”
“You’re threatening me?” I asked, mock horrified. “I would think that was beneath you.”
“It’s important to have clear boundaries,” he said, grabbing a towel and getting to work on some wet highball glasses. “And I like to keep all my relationships uncomplicated. Especially business ones.”
“Then trust me to do my job,” I said, standing.
“Christ, I barely trust you at all,” he said. “So go win me over, will ya?”
10
My office, later that night. Over the last few months I had spent more and more time here, both out of necessity—as I was now responsible for all my paperwork and appointments, it was eating into actual work time—and boredom. Work was a great distraction, and there was plenty about. Any work fiend will tell you there’s always something more to be done—a shrink would have a field day with me transferring my previous bad habits into, say, revamping my filing system or scrubbing old files from my laptop.
Ayesha arrived with her cappuccino and an easy smile. She kept even worse hours than me, so she didn’t mind when I had called her to come over. I gave her the rundown on the Bowering job, and she quickly agreed—one week, standard freelance rate.
“You must like this guy to do a freebie for him,” she said.
“It’s not free. It’s a bit of quid pro quo. Besides, he and I, we go back a bit.”
“Are you getting sentimental?”
“No, quite the opposite—painfully practical. Speaking of, you hearing anything more about the Duclos thing?”
She shook her head. “All my sources are quiet on it. If he’s alive, he’s done a damn good job going undercover.”
“And we still have zero idea of his motive or state of mind.”
“Pretty much, yeah. What’d the wife say?”
I stirred my coffee.
“That he quietly and expertly stole 4 million quid over the last few years from his employers and clients, information she is withholding from the police. Hence hiring me to find him first.”
I sipped, then watched. Her face was quizzical for a split second, then her eyes went wide as a pair of hubcaps.
“Daaaaaamn,” she said, and she threw her head back with a throaty laugh.
I couldn’t help laughing too.
“I know, right?” I said. “Pretty bad-ass. I think I like her, too, actually. God knows she’s got a set of brass ones on herself.”
“So, what did she give you?”
I pointed to the folder on my desk.
“Pretty thick,” she observed.
I shook my head. “Most of it is financials. Not a lot on his personal life or his friends. Or more importantly, enemies.”
“Guy steals a few million, he’s going to have some enemies.”
“I dunno. Everything so far speaks to how smart he is—I am not really feeling him as sloppy or foolish. Not yet, anyhow. I asked the wife how she found out about the money. She said—get this—‘He told me.’ That was it. She says she had no idea. When she asked why he only said that it was for the future.”
“Someone knows. You’d better find that person before the cops do. Or maybe you’d prefer to keep wrestling with that.” She nodded towards the folder.
I sighed.
“I don’t suppose you’re a forensic accountant as well?” I asked.
“Don’t be greedy,” she said. “I bring enough to the table for my clients.”
“You’ll hurt my feelings, talking about other suitors.”
“It’s for the best. I think it’s important to be upfront about these things.” She leaned back, crossing her legs at slender ankles. “But I do know a guy, actually. Clem Mattingly. Heard of him?”
I shook my head. I was plugged in, but Ayesha was on another level. Her freelance security and bodyguard work was primarily for the type of people who had hospital wings and school buildings named after them—while they were still alive.
“Used to work for AGI, left early 2008,” she filled me in.
“Before the crash?”
“Yup. He says he saw it coming, but I think he was just lucky. He has his own shop now for
some exclusive clients. He’s good, and if I asked, he’d take a look. It won’t be cheap, though.”
“I appreciate your honesty, even when I know what’s coming,” I said, I leaned back, drumming my fingers on the file. “There was something,” I said. “There’s a pile of family pics all over the place, her and the hubby and their kid. There was one pic of Mr. Duclos on a boat with some guy.”
“Boat?”
“Yacht, I think. They had these big entitled smiles and were smoking cigars, both of which would be very yacht-like behavior.”
“Could be a start. Otherwise it’s the folder and homework all weekend for Mr. Grayle.”
“Funny you should say that. I was at a school today, if you recall. Chatting with the Duclos kid.”
“Oh yeah? What’s he like? Completely insufferable or just quietly messed up?”
“Quietly messed up, at least according to all the evidence I’ve seen. Nice kid though. Seems pretty twisted up all over this.”
“Well, yeah. Imagine your dad just ups and vanishes. Bit of an abandonment rug pull, I’m guessing.”
“Sure, yeah,” I said. “But… I don’t know. He’s definitely a little weird. Intense, too. And a loner. Or maybe just lonely.”
“How’s that?
“I walked him through the school at recess to go somewhere quiet to chat. I wanted to see him in his environment. Not one kid said hello to him.”
“Ouch. How old is he?
“Old enough to know how much that sucks.”
“What were you like in school?” she asked.
“I was a pretty good student. But I was bored a lot. If I wasn’t interested in something, I rarely tried my best.”
“Did that help prepare you for adult life?” she asked, nodding towards the financials and adding a just wicked-enough smile to accentuate her point.
“Until I went into this racket and had the pleasure of such acquaintances as yourself,” I sweetly demurred. She laughed again, giving me the chance to switch gears back to the topic at hand.
“The kid, though. He definitely left me with the impression all was not great at home. The marriage might be chilly, or the dad might be nasty. But he wouldn’t really give me much more. I didn’t want to push too hard, either.”
“You were a teacher, right? You good with kids?”
I considered this for a moment. In my office desk, in the top drawer just to my right, there was a framed picture, facing up, of Amy and me from last Boxing Day. She had loved the chess set I gave her—and she hated I had left early.
I said it was work. It had been. Paperwork and notes. But it could’ve waited.
“Some,” I said. “And only sometimes.”
11
According to a quick text exchange with Annie Duclos, the guy in the yacht photo was Daniel Worster, another big shot at Bergman Hapsburg. He and Duclos had worked together for years in the Mile and were, at least according to Mrs. Duclos, both comrades-in-arms in the morally barren terrain of international high finance, as well as occasional pub buddies on Fridays. In other words: friends. And “friend” was not a word I was hearing a lot about in reference to Yannick Duclos.
I followed Worster from his office to that pub, watching his easy manner with the bartender and his waves to fellow 5 o’clock regulars. It was still pretty quiet in there but knowing the Mile’s inhabitants and their predilection towards excess, I wasn’t willing to risk sitting back much longer. I slid onto the stool next to him, unbuttoning my jacket and waving to get the barman’s attention.
“You might have to try a bit harder,” Worster said, sipping his first pint. “Phillip can be a bit slow sometimes. But he makes up for it in personality.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “He’s not going to be too excited whipping me up a club soda anyways.”
“So, not a big night, then?”
“Those are well behind me,” I said, twisting to face him. “I’m Thad.”
We shook hands. As he began to introduce himself, I responded by handing him my card. He barely glanced at it before gracing me with a sad little head shake.
“I know who you are,” I said, “and you’re a man I want to talk to.”
“Goodness,” he said, getting back to his pint but still giving me the once-over. “Not sure how I feel about being… stalked.”
“In my line of work, we just call it research. Annie Duclos has hired me to help find her husband.”
To his credit, he didn’t even flinch.
“How’s that going?” he asked.
“Just taking the deep dive into his life. Which is why you and I are making small talk before I can actually get rolling here.”
“Ask away,” he said.
“Do you know any reason why Yannick would want to disappear?”
Worster shrugged. “None. I mean, he was under a lot of stress and work was hectic, but he never the type to grumble.”
“So when you guys got together, you’d talk about…”
I waited for him to jump in. Instead, he took another swig.
“Hey,” I said. “Feel free to jump in here. This isn’t playtime. Your guy is missing and I’m trying to find him.”
“I already spoke to the police,” he said.
“And I’ve been hired to assist in that investigation,” I said, my voice rising a few decibels. “You can call Mrs. Duclos to confirm all this.”
“Oh, I will,” he said. “As well as to ask why on earth she’s hired some penny-ante gumshoe to faff about in all this when the police are likely far more capable.”
I smiled at Worster, waiting him out. Phillip, the barman, finally made his way over to me.
“Club soda, lime,” I said. “Cheers.”
Neither of us said anything until my drink arrived a few moments later.
“Perhaps that was somewhat unkind,” Worster finally allowed. “But honestly, I’m shocked to be talking to you. This is preposterous.”
“Exactly how so?”
“The police are no doubt sparing no resource in their investigation. This is at best, a waste of time. At worst, you’re actively meddling in their pursuit.”
“I’m not going to get into their way. Mrs. Duclos just wanted some extra help, including your presumed cooperation in this conversation as a family friend. So, again: What’d you guys talk about when you’d hang out?”
“Work. Our kids. Money. Women.”
“The usual, then.”
“Once you get to a certain age, the range of topics narrows considerably.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
Worster rolled his eyes by way of shaking his head.
“OK, on your topic of women, then. Did Duclos mess around?”
No eye roll this time, but a short snort.
“Yannick? No. Never. I don’t think he even thought about it. His was a…quiet existence, for the most part.”
“He sounds like a real fun guy to spend your Fridays with, then.”
Worster shifted on his stool, catching Phillip’s eye for round two.
“Look, we were work friends. We didn’t grow up together and we weren’t veterans of some great war together. We moved money around to make more of it. He was good at it. And he was, in my observation, a good person, full stop. So maybe he wasn’t a sparkling conversationalist. Good people are hard to come by.”
Phillip arrived with Worster’s pint. He took a deep sip and gave me a glance.
“But, as I’m sure you will agree, there’s more to life than small talk, detective.”
“Was that your yacht? The one you two were on last year in that photo?”
“Hardly. I’m rich, but not ridiculously so. Not yet, anyhow. No, that was Klodjan’s boat. We were out fishing, drinking, carousing.”
“Who’s that?”
“Klodjan Copta. A client. Very well off. He’s the kind of person who owns a yacht, and lots of other big-boy toys.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“He has many interests,
but his primary corporation deals with property development and real estate.”
“Was this a regular thing, you guys all getting together?”
Worster thought this over.
“Maybe once or twice a year. He was always willing to demonstrate his gratitude.”
“Sounds like a helluva guy. I think I should meet him.”
“You can reach his office through the magic of any number of internet search engines,” Worster said, finishing his second.
“You know,” I said, “Normally I’d offer to spot you a round for your trouble, but based on our conversation I worry you might find the offer insulting.”
“Not nearly as insulting as something that has just occurred to me,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“It occurs to me you know more than you’re letting on. Annie wouldn’t have hired someone like you if there wasn’t a reason for it.”
“I told you the reason.”
“Please,” Worster said. “You don’t have to tell me, but don’t patronize me.”
“What makes you so sure?” I said, tugging a fiver loose from my coat and tucking it under my glass.
“Annie and Yannick were the two most straight-laced and somewhat boring people I know,” he said. “For her to go outside the norms of this investigation and engage with a private detective… Well, it tells me something else is going on.”
“Maybe you’d like to be a detective.”
“I don’t know,” Worster replied, raising his glass in farewell. “How’s the pay?”
“Not great, but the perks are OK,” I said, standing and turning away. “You don’t have to talk to people any longer than absolutely necessary.”
12
The next day. An afternoon of tailing Klodjan Copta had demonstrated a few of his passions—his Rolls, the racetrack, a lovely wine bar in the West End—but little about his work. If he had an office, this may very well have been his day off. Or maybe he was at the point in his life and career where the money just somehow happened. Either way, calling his offices seemed a bit of a dice roll, so I decided to take the more forward approach.
He was just wrapping up lunch, a Turkish spot on Holloway Road. Hardly high-end, but still decent. His driver held the door for him as I made my move to catch his attention.
Ten Grand Page 5